


Perchance to Dream

by tanwencooper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, Coma, Feels, Gen, Mama Stilinski Feels, POV Peter Hale, Sass, Sassy Peter, Stiles Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanwencooper/pseuds/tanwencooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "Do you know how my Mom died?" asked Stiles.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Peter and Stiles end up talking about their past tragedies. Turns out they have more in common than they thought. No one had ever asked Peter about his coma before. Perhaps talking about it will provide some absolution for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be an horrific, tear inducing, angst fest. Then Peter happened and got his sass all over the place. He has a habit of doing that.
> 
> This takes some place between episode 3x03 and 3x07.

            The klaxon sounded. Peter covered his ears and stared at the flashing red light until it went away. He still couldn’t understand why Derek had installed it but then he’d always had a flair for the dramatic. Most people just had a doorbell.

            He didn’t move from his position on the couch as he waited for whoever it was to come in. It wouldn’t be the alpha pack. They weren’t after him and they weren’t so sloppy as to raid Derek’s loft while someone was home. Peter could smell teenage boy. Human. Stiles. Of course it was Stiles. It was _always_ Stiles.

            “Hey Grumpyass! I need to talk to you,” Stiles called as he walked into the loft without knocking.

            “His Grumpyness is out,” Peter announced.

            Stiles spun to face Peter, brandishing some ancient looking tome at him like a weapon. Business as usual then.

            “You’re not Derek,” said Stiles, book still raised in defence.

            “Excellent powers of observation you have there. Is that a family trait? You could be a Sheriff yourself with deductive skills like that.”

            Stiles gave him a fake smile, finally dropping the book and relaxing.

            “Keep up the funny, Peter. That’s really going to make me not want to drive a mountain ash stake through your heart.”

            Peter thought about that for a second.

            “I don’t think that would work,” he said. “The mountain ash wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near me and even if it could I don’t think it would just break against my sternum. Still, I appreciate the sentiment. Let’s not try it anytime soon.”

            Stiles wasn’t listening. Instead he was pacing around the loft, glancing up the stairs and peeking into every corner.

            “Is Derek here?” he asked.

            “He’s out,” said Peter. “Fighting crime or evil or his own deep seated self-loathing. It’s so hard to keep track these days.”

            Stiles threw his bag back onto his back muttering to himself about no one appreciating his contribution to the team. Ahh teenage politics. How much did Peter not miss that?

            “Can you at least take a message for him?” Stiles asked at last. “I found out all about Celtic symbols and bank vaults made of rare werewolf stopping minerals for him. He could at least take a damn look. It’s not like I have anything else in my life to take care of. Like homework or looking after my Dad or, I don’t know, _hunting down a serial killer evil druid!_  I don’t know why I bother. _”_

Stiles slammed the book down on the kitchen counter, pulling a file out of his back pack and slapping it down on top.

“Why _do_ you bother?” Peter asked. “The rest of your rag tag team of wannabe heroes I understand. Isaac and Boyd are part of Derek’s pack, so was Erica. They had to get involved if their alpha was. As long as he’s a werewolf Scott will get dragged in eventually, even if he wasn’t so goddamn noble all the time. Allison’s a hunter, Lydia is… well Lydia is whatever Lydia is. But you, you could walk away. There’s nothing making you do this. You’re not anything. You’re just Stiles.”

            Stiles looked like he was holding back a torrent and rage and abuse. Barely. Peter did enjoy winding up Derek’s little protégés. It was such delicious fun.

            “I quite like being just Stiles. I personal think it makes my badassery that little bit more badass because I’m just a regular ol’ human. And now this regular ol’ human has to go take his Dad dinner before the man decides to get take out.”

            He turned to leave, dropping another book onto the counter. Where did Stiles dig up all these old books on supernatural lore? The Hales had obviously been in Beacon Hills for too many generations. It was beginning to rub off on the library.

            “Close the door on your way out,” Peter called.

            Stiles stamped to a halt before turning back to Peter.

            “What the hell are you doing here anyway?” asked Stiles. “Does Derek even know you’re here?”

            “I’m sure he is aware,” said Peter settling deeper into the couch. “Knowing Derek he’s probably hoping home home will burn down with me in it. Again. It would explain his lack of concern over the shoddy wiring in this place. If I wasn’t the only family he had left I think he’d do it on purpose just to watch me die all over again. We have a healthy relationship like that.”

            “What about Cora?” asked Stiles.

            “Yes,” said Peter. “What about Cora. Family is family I suppose. It’s the only thing I have left. Same goes for Derek.”

            The boy shook his head and left without even so much as a goodbye. Nobody had any manners these days. Half way out the door, Stiles paused and turned back. Peter ignored him as the boy took a few hesitant steps back into the room. He hovered by the kitchen for a few seconds before stepping back in front of Peter. When he spoke it was without the vitriol and bravado he’d had only minutes before.

            “Peter, can I ask you a question?”

            “Seeing as you’re going to anyway, I fear my answer would be pointless.”

            Stiles tapped his foot on the ground and bit down on his lip. It always amazed Peter how aggressive the boy could be by just standing with his hands on his hips. Probably a trait picked up from his cop father. With the Hales it was all in the glare when it came to the art of intimidation. The Stilinskis were more about strategic hand placement.

            “What was it like when you were in the coma?” asked Stiles.

            Peter gave him a proper look at that. Whatever question he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that one. No one had ever asked him that. What with the being evil and the dying and the trust issues talking about his six years in hospital had never seemed a priority. Not that Peter was in any rush to talk about it. He’d be quite happy never talking about it again and pretending that it never happened. He paused for a moment, his eyes taking an appraising look at Stiles. The boy had obviously been wanting to ask for a while. It must be important to him, better give him an honest answer.

            “In a word? Hell.”

            He said the words flatly, without emotion, as if he was talking about his trip to the mall on a busy day. ‘ _The stores Derek, absolute hell_.’ Stiles swallowed. Peter could hear it from across the room.

            “So you were awake then?” he asked.

            “In a manner of speaking. I was aware of what was going on around me. I just couldn’t do anything about it.”

            “You could hear then?” asked Stiles.

            “Yes. I heard everything,” said Peter bitterly. He didn’t like to be reminded of his six years in a living prison but Stiles seemed intent on dragging it out of him.

            “Everything?”

            “Everything,” he said deliberately enunciating every syllable. “I may have been the burned out shell of a man but my werewolf senses were still in glorious full working order. The doctors never discussed my condition when they were beside my bedside but I could hear them in the hall. I could hear the people in the room next to me, their loving families coming to see them every day while mine would visit maybe a few times a year, if that. The ones that weren’t dead that is. I could hear when they woke up and went home. I could hear when they died, could smell it too. Do you know what it’s like to have an enhanced sense of smell in a hospital? A bouquet of death and disinfectant with delightful overtones of shit and piss. I could feel every needle, every bed sore, every indignation you get put through while lying unconscious in a hospital. For six years I had to live with this horrible taste in my mouth because they used spearmint toothpaste instead of peppermint. The worst part was I wasn’t even blind. I could see half the time. The same boring green walls that never changed for _six years!_ ”

            He was surprised by his own calm. It wasn’t an act, he really did feel at peace with it now. Perhaps he’d been needing to say that far more than Stiles had needed to hear it. His piece said he slumped back against the couch and pulled across the magazine he’d been reading.

            “And you people wonder why I’m such a screw up?”

            There was no reply. It took him a minute or so to realise that Stiles wasn’t leaving. He was just standing there with a vague look on his face, fingers dug into the flesh of his arm. A tear broke free of his eyelashes, shocking him awake again.

            “I didn’t know you cared so much about my welfare,” said Peter, curiosity softening his tones.

            “I don’t,” said Stiles wiping his eye.

            Peter rolled his eyes and went back to his reading. If Stiles was going to have some kind of teenage breakdown in the middle of Derek’s apartment, that was his prerogative. Peter had had enough of teenage drama in last few months. The kid sniffed and wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. Oh for the love of… He threw a box of tissues at Stiles head, catching him neatly in the temple, before standing up and walking to the kitchen.

            “Here,” said Peter, offering Stiles a beer before reclaiming his seat on Derek’s worn couch.

            Stiles looked from the beer to Peter to the seat next to him, never letting his guard down for a second. Still glaring at Peter he took a sip before sinking down to sit beside him.

            Okay. So maybe Peter liked to deal with teenage drama once in a while. It reminded him of better times when he was Fun Uncle Peter who drove his siblings mad by teaching their kids how to lace beer with wolf’s bane or giving them dating advice.

            “Do you know how my Mom died?” asked Stiles.

            “I didn’t know your Mom was dead,” said Peter

            “It was a rhetorical question,” said Stiles coolly.

            Peter sighed. It was going to be one of _those_ conversations. Was it too late to back out now?

            “Sorry. You’re talking. I’m listening,” said Peter. “Go on. Please tell me about your own personal tragedy. Spare no detail.”

            Stiles sat up, obviously struggling with the urge to run and his need to talk about the death of his mother with him, for some reason. Peter couldn’t be too flippant about it. He’d had more than his fair share of familial loss. Stiles seemed to reach some kind of resolution and began to speak, his voice unnaturally level.

            “When I was ten I woke up late for school one day. I didn’t want to go, I pretended to be sick but my Mom wasn’t having any of it. She shoved me into the car and drove off. I was being a little shit because that’s what I do. Anything doesn’t go my way, time to be annoying as hell. We were two minutes from school when the tyre blew and the car spun out.

            “Do you know that when a car loses control nearly everyone will instinctively steer the car so that the passenger side is facing the danger. Survival instinct. It just takes over, you can’t help it, everyone does it. Except for parents. If their kids are in the car they try to steer to protect their children. It’s not a conscious thing. It’s just… love I suppose.”

            Stiles fell silent. His fingers were picking at the label of the beer bottle. Peter understood.

            “You’re mom steered herself into danger to keep you safe,” said Peter.

            Stiles sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve before remembering the tissue from earlier and wiping his nose.

            “We hit a tree,” he said. “I don’t remember much after that until I got to hospital. I was totally fine, just whip lash, but my Mom…”

            “Not so much,” Peter finished.

            “No. She was in a coma. A 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale. That’s…”

            “Bad,” said Peter.

            3 was the lowest score you could get without actually being dead. It meant totally unresponsive. The outlook was pretty much entirely negative. He remembered the doctors talking about it in the hospital over his own lifeless body.

            “After six months or so,” Stiles continued, “the doctors said that she wasn’t ever going to wake up again. Brain dead. Do you know what that’s like? To be a ten year old boy and get told that your mother is dead when you’re sat by her bedside and you can feel her heart beat? While she’s still breathing?”

            Peter didn’t move. He knew that question wasn’t his to answer.

            “My mom wouldn’t have wanted to live that way,” said Stiles. Peter could hear the shake in Stiles’ voice. It quivered all the way down to his gut. “Life was for living, that’s what she always used to tell me. It’s why I do half the stupid shit I do. Life is for living, no second guessing, just do it. When she… when we… she’d already withered away down skin and bone but when we decided it was time and withdrew her fluids… I’d spent six months watching her just disappear but those last few days were the worst. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a person die from dehydration but it’s not pretty. Luckily it didn’t last long. It was only a day before her heart gave out, she was already so weak.”

            Stiles fell silent. Peter could feel the guilt coming off of the kid. It was not an emotion he was commonly afflicted with himself, guilt, even though he’d done much in his life to feel guilty about. Peter ran through the memories of his time in the hospital. They’d all blurred into one long stream of comings and goings but there was a strong chance that he had heard Stiles talking to his brain dead mother, back in the early days when he had been listening. Back when he cared. He thought but no recollection came to mind.

            “She wouldn’t have felt it,” said Peter blandly, feeling he owed Stiles some solace. “If she was brain dead she wouldn’t have felt it. She wouldn’t have been aware. I could hear, feel and smell everything but my brain problem wasn’t with my brain. She wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

            “That’s what the doctors told me,” said Stiles. “And the books. And Google. Sometimes I wish there had been some part of her still awake at the end. Even if she’d been in pain at least she could have dreamed.”

            Stiles put the beer on the table even though he hadn’t taken more than a sip and stood. He was halfway to the door again when he stopped and turned back to Peter with that strange serenity that comes after a long needed confession.

            “You wanna know the worst thing?” said Stiles. “It’s not the guilt that if I hadn’t been in the car she wouldn’t have steered into the tree or that if I hadn’t been late it she wouldn’t have been driving that fast when the tyre blew. It’s not even that I never got to say goodbye. It’s that when my mom died, when her brain died on that roadside, she was pissed at me and I hated her, and no matter what I do that is never going to change.”

            Stiles turned away and walked out the loft sliding the door behind him, leaving Peter alone in the room.

            Peter closed his eyes and let his other senses take control. He could hear Stiles as he took the stairs rather than the elevator. He could smell the barely touched beer and taste it on the air. He could feel the emptiness of the room on his skin.

            He opened his eyes and looked at what few possessions amounted to his nephew’s life. He should have been there for Derek after the fire, and for Laura too. Instead he was trapped inside himself, forgetting how to be alive. He still hadn’t quite got the hang of it. He thought about the pain that Stiles still felt over the loss of his mother all these years later. How Derek and Cora still burned with the loss of their family, even though neither could bring themselves to show it nor would they ever admit it.

            Peter knew he could drop dead at that very moment and no one would care. Not a soul. If anything they would be relieved. Sometimes he wondered why he’d ever bothered coming back in the first place.

            He reached out and picked up the beer Stiles had left behind. He hated the taste of beer but it wasn’t spearmint toothpaste so he’d take it. Picking up his magazine he began to read again, waiting for his family to come home.

            

**Author's Note:**

> As always constructive criticism is welcome and if you feel so inclined please [ follow me on tumblr.](tanwencooper.tumblr.com)


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